


The Things Frank Plays: Things Get Complicated

by s0ckpupp3t



Series: Hooker!verse [2]
Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Consensual Kink, F/M, M/M, Open Relationships, Pony Play, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2017-09-09
Packaged: 2018-12-25 13:38:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12037008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s0ckpupp3t/pseuds/s0ckpupp3t
Summary: Frank had to get over this dude.  Tonight would help.  Work was always a good way to center himself.  Whether he was playing the guitar or playing one of his clients, he could get into a groove and know his place in the world.  Sinking into the sounds and rhythms of somebody’s vocals or moans, he’d show his colors, get paid for his talents, and go home to his dog.





	The Things Frank Plays: Things Get Complicated

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dapatty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dapatty/gifts).



> Five years later, I finished the sequel. Sorry about that. Unbetaed, 18k. This one's for dapatty - it would not exist without her cheerleading.

+++++++++++++++++++

Thursday morning, Frank staggered out of bed far too early, nuked a cup of yesterday’s coffee, and poked at his keyboard until his email came up. And suddenly, the morning was worth it, because there was an email from booking. Was he free Thursday night next week for a four-hour engagement? VIP protocols, contact office for details, make sure NDAs are on file, blah blah blah. 

His heart skipped a beat. Finally, Gerard had come back. Why couldn’t Frank have him _now_? Admittedly, there were things to do in the meantime. Frank went over his schedule in his head. He had five gigs between now and then - three with the day job, and two with the band. Tomorrow, he got to hang out with one of his favorite clients, a woman who owned a few clubs downtown and was always getting pressured to go to charity shindigs. Frank looked good in a tux and could keep up inane conversations for hours if he had to; she liked quietly thumbing her nose at society by bringing a date with tattooed fingers, and knowing she could always ditch the dinner and get laid if she wanted. 

Saturday night, the band was opening for a decent group that had just started to tour. His bandmates were pretty psyched about it, meaning they’d actually come up with a set list ahead of time instead of deciding to follow whatever song their lead singer launched them into when he was high.

Sunday afternoon he was stuck with one of the clients who made the rounds with all of the guys at Elite because nobody wanted to hang onto him. It was an art, with customers like this, keeping them satisfied enough to stay with EES but not so happy that they always wanted to book with _you_. Eventually, this guy would try another company, but in the meantime, Frank would have to put up with him occasionally. He had a ‘tiny man’ fetish, which would be hard enough to accommodate as it was, but he also insisted on using this incredibly irritating high-pitched whine during every session. With everyone. Because that’s how he thought a two-inch-tall human being would sound. Frank winced and rubbed his eyes, thinking back. At least Tinyman was good to the staff.

Tuesday evening was a ‘date’ with his favorite senator. Everything about it was a huge cliche - he was older, married to a woman and they had children, he was always hiring Frank for quickies between political appointments, he was secretly kinky - except the guy was a democrat, genuinely nice, and too smart to get caught with an intern.

Wednesday night was the band’s regular gig at a local dive bar. At least, so far it was regular. Frank was pretty sure it was only a matter of time before the owners disagreed about hiring bands and they went to special occasions and Saturdays only. The owner, who was never there and disliked hiring music, never saw all the drunks who kept hanging around and, more importantly, kept buying drinks because there was entertainment, and so would only figure out what live music was good for after he’d burnt every local band by canceling engagements and being a crazy cheap bastard. Not that Frank had seen this shit happen before or anything.

But after all that... he got Gerard. He shouldn’t have been that excited about it. He definitely shouldn’t be pulling out his phone and hoping for a text message, because he shouldn’t have given a client his number. And he shouldn’t have been disappointed when there was nothing there.

Frank sighed. He could check in with the agency today, head downtown and be on call for sudden appointments or cancellations. He could burn some of this sudden anxious energy off that way. But five gigs in a week was enough. He could always sign up to be on call Monday if he felt like it. He looked back at his appointment request email, clicked the ‘Confirm Appointment and Add to Calendar” button, and crawled back into bed.

He woke up at two, did three loads of laundry, changed his guitar strings, and found all the wayward parts of his tux. It took until the last load was drying for him to find his bow tie, and then he had to iron it, which would have been substantially easier if he’d had an ironing board. He’d just come up with the incredibly bright idea of putting a hardcover book inside a pillowcase when his phone beeped.

_Looks like I’ll see you Thursday._

Frank grinned, hit “Reply,” then resolutely closed his phone and set it down before composing a message. He didn’t see Gerard for a week, but he _did_ have an iron plugged in right now that would probably burn his apartment down if he didn’t do something about it. He managed to make the bow tie much flatter than it had been, unplugged the iron, put the bow tie with all the other tux stuff for tomorrow, and finally opened his phone again. _Been thinking about what you want to do?_

His phone beeped again with gratifying speed. _Maybe._

 _so u must wanna catch that movie this time ;)_ Frank hit “Send,” chewing on his lip. Maybe this was going too far. He put his phone in his pocket and went to at least wash a couple of coffee mugs, anything to keep him from staring at his screen like a complete dork.

It beeped before he got to the sink. _Hoping for a private showing. ;)_

He turned on the water and drizzled Palmolive over a sponge and some of the dishes that were growing fuzz. He managed to wash three coffee mugs, two forks, and three spoons (where did all the knives go?) before giving in and yanking his phone back out of his pocket. _Showing like a show pony?_ That was actually a little better; sex and teasing were back in the domain of work, where he should have been keeping things all along.

Beep. _nebody ever tell u you’re evil?_

Frank flopped on the couch, unbuttoning his jeans. Just to be comfortable when he was sitting. Not so he could put his hand down his shorts, or anything. _That’s not evil._ He sent the message, and immediately started another one. _evil would be asking if u really want me to bring the bit and crop._ Send. He unzipped his fly, letting his fingers wander over familiar territory. Strong abs he worked on for the sake of the agency, the dip of his navel, a dusting of dark hair leading down over softer skin, the waistband of his boxers. He thumbed the elastic aside, fingertips straying further.

Beep. Frank poked his phone screen with his left hand. _That *would* be evil._

He tried to think of an appropriate response, tried to think of anything besides how good it was going to feel to get Gerard riding him again, all intense and earnest and easy and fucking loud. Frank sighed, finally wrapping his fingers around his cock, mentally adding this to the list in his head of ‘things he shouldn’t be doing.’ 

His phone beeped again. Frank hadn’t seen that coming. He lifted his left hand to read the new message, fingers of his right hand straying down to cup his balls. _Yes._

It took him a second to figure out what that meant, but as soon as he did, a sweet ache seated itself low in Frank’s belly. He squeezed the base of his cock and started stroking slowly, spelling out a new message with his left thumb. _bit in my mouth or yours?_ At this rate, he was going to come soon. He took a shaky breath and held it, speeding up his strokes so the side of his thumb grazed the head of his cock every time his hand slid upward.

Beep. _omfg_.

Frank grinned when he saw the letters pop up, tightened his fingers a little, getting close.

Beep. _but i like it when u talk_. Beep. _fuck now i’m thinking about the crop._

Yeah, that was enough to send Frank over the edge, easy. He shot into his cupped palm with a grunt that echoed off the walls of his small apartment. He wiped his hand hastily on a towel, grabbing his phone and clumsily sending _i could go easy on u_ as fast as he could, not wanting Gerard to get bored and go away just because Frank couldn’t keep his hand out of his pants. The close fluttering thrill in the base of his stomach wasn’t all post-orgasmic bliss. It was the little rush of adrenaline he always got when he thought he might be snagging a new regular client. A good regular - a newbie with money, and enthusiasm, and contacts he could actually use to further his career.

Newbies could be great, because if you worked them right, they didn’t think about going to other escorts or companies. If you were careful, they became the perfect regulars. Working with an agency as top-notch as Elite meant he didn’t have to be as careful; they kept prices high and security good with solid rules and ways of enforcing them. Usually, the danger was of the newbie not knowing the rules or getting too attached, but it looked like Frank was more at risk this time. 

The beep totally caught him off guard. _Go for it. Bring whatever you think is good ok?_

Frank could just see the guy biting his lip, trying to figure out what he even wanted. _i’ll take care of you, bb ;)_

+++++++++++++++++++

Gerard turned off his phone and got up, picking his way across the bus to the tiny bathroom. He looked casual, didn’t he? _Just gotta take a leak. Nevermind the stiffy. I mean, what stiffy?_ He rolled his eyes at himself and pushed open the tiny door. 

He locked it, leaned back against it, got his hand around his cock and sighed, biting his lip. A surge of extremely unhelpful thoughts accompanied the feeling of relief from the pressure that had been building in his balls. _Who jerks off on a moving bus_ turned into _and who jerks off over a hooker, and whose wife orders hookers do I have some sort of weird pay-for-sex addiction now, fuck, who likes bits and bridles and riding crops and shit what if this is the gateway to some sort of bestiality thing either way I’m going to hell, but oh god, his mouth_ and then it was gone. He was left with a series of mental pictures and remembered sensations, and a lonely phantom ache in his jaw, a memory of what it had been like, after. The places he’d hurt, how good he’d felt.

Gerard wound up coming with his fingers in his mouth, his fist tight around his dick, and Ray just starting to bang on the door.

+++++++++++++++++++

It all went okay. Frank somehow managed to keep his customers happy, not kill any venue owners, and keep his hands out of his pants where Gerard was concerned. He managed to keep things professional, too. Sexy, but professional. He didn’t initiate text conversations. He didn’t ask if Gerard’s wife was still okay with “outsourcing.” He didn’t ask if Gerard’s brother knew. He didn’t ask when they were appearing on Late Night Tonight or whatever-the-fuck-it-was. Admittedly, he didn’t have to ask, because it was on the show’s website. They were on tomorrow night, which meant Gerard could probably sleep in a little. These things were usually filmed in the afternoon, right?

...Frank had to get over this dude. Tonight would help. Work was always a good way to center himself. Whether he was playing the guitar or playing one of his clients, he could get into a groove and know his place in the world. Sinking into the sounds and rhythms of somebody’s vocals or moans, he’d show his colors, get paid for his talents, and go home to his dog.

+++++++++++++++++++

“Okay, I’ll see you after dinner.” Mikey waved. “Cantonese, it’s gonna be great!”

Gerard sucked his lip between his teeth. “Actually, you’re rooming with Ray tonight, I think.”

Mikey stepped closer. “Wait, she did it _again_?”

“Sort of.” He could feel the tips of his ears getting red.

“You…?” Mikey nodded, his eyes flicking over Gerard. “Shit, whatever works, Gee. Just--”

“I know.” Don’t get attached, be safe, don’t endanger the band, remember he could always talk to Mikey, always. Gerard smiled. “Linds says it’s good for me.”

“Hell, I think Linds would take him home and make him dinner. She’s right, you’re way less of a pain in the ass.”

“Shuddup!” They nudged each other. “Go eat whatever weird thing you’re all excited about.”

“Yeah, you too.” Mikey got in the last word, and the last dick joke. Gerard let him have it.

+++++++++++++++++++

6:45. The elevator beeped subtly as it registered Frank’s secure-level access card for the 34th floor and the doors closed. Gerard was in a slightly swankier hotel this time, and he’d left Frank a key. Not that it would have been a problem. Elite had an understanding with most of the concierges in places where access, press, or discretion might be an issue. But it was nice not to have to worry about it. 

It was nice to be trusted. People could be so strange, the things they’d trust their escorts with. Their deepest secrets, their weirdest fetishes, vast sums of money, their addictions -- but they’d balk at sharing their names, or leaving Frank in the same room with their wallets. Marking those lines in the sand was what made the job work, though, and he had to remember that. A room key, sharing a toothbrush, these were just indications that Gerard didn’t know how to play the game yet. Well, Frank was just going to have to teach him. 

Frank’s ears popped as he passed the 24th floor. He looked himself over in the mirrors, glossy mahogany, and chrome. He wore a black button-down, enough buttons undone at the neck to show the top of a white undershirt and a few tantalizing glimpses of ink. And another pair of tight black jeans. He’d thought about wearing dress slacks, but he always thought the combo made him look like a waiter.

The doors slid open quietly. Frank adjusted the messenger bag on his shoulder and walked down to 3432.

Knock-knock-knock.

“Yeah, but what if they decide they want to change out the cleared songs? ...you’re probably right. That’s the door.”

A freshly-showered Gerard opened the door to the room smiling, his ear cocked to his cell. “Yes, it is.” He took a moment to look Frank over, and he seemed pleased at what he saw. “Fuck, Linds, I dunno.” He stepped back from the threshold and pulled the phone away, covering the mouthpiece end. “You wanna say hi? It’s okay if you don’t.”

Frank laughed and shrugged. “Sure.” He took the phone. “Hey, it’s Frank.”

Gerard busied himself with locking the door and putting out the do-not-disturb sign. Frank dropped his bag on the floor.

 _”Ha, you even sound hot. I just wanted to say thanks for keeping Gee sane on the road._ ” She sounded comfortable, happy. It was a relief. Frank had done couples before, but nothing exactly like this. 

“Oh, it’s my pleasure. Thank you for letting me borrow your husband.” Frank gave Gerard a once-over in return, smirking. Gerard blushed a little, raking back his wet hair like he had no idea what to do with it. The water had darkened the collar of his t-shirt.

“ _You boys have fun, now. Goodnight, Frank!_ ”

“‘Night!” Frank held out the phone to Gerard. “I think she hung up.” 

“What’d she say?” Gerard licked his lips.

“She wants us to have fun.” Frank kicked off his shoes and socks and leaned back against the locked door, posing shamelessly. “So, what sounds like fun to you, hotstuff?”

Gerard swallowed audibly. He suddenly remembered how terrible he’d been at this last time. How awkward and weird and squeaky and awful. His mind was a warehouse at closing time, banks of lights flipping off systematically until everything was dark. Frank was right there in front of him, gorgeous and… no, professionally gorgeous, looking every inch that way. Untouchable and unutterably filthy, all at once, and Gerard was just standing there and staring and being weird, because this was a horrible idea. “Um?” It was the least calm-sounding ‘um’ in the history of ever, high-pitched and wavery.

It was like that broke the spell, somehow. Frank dropped the pose, relaxed the intense stare, and reached out to him. “Hey, whoa, if you want we can just order pizza. Or…” And something changed in his expression, his eyes becoming cooler, more guarded. “I can go, no problem, no questions asked, prorated refund including deposit. We’ve got procedures for that kinda thing.”

“What, no. No. Unless…?” _Unless you want to leave because I am a weird useless awful client and ugly and disgusting and you didn’t really want to see me again in the first place_ , and Gerard was proud of himself for not saying it out loud.

Frank seemed to get it anyway. “No. We had a great time last time, and I want to do all that again, and more, all the stuff we talked about.” Gerard flashed back to their text messages, to the bus, to mornings he’d woken up hard and with the memory of illustrated skin under his tongue. “But if you don’t feel good about that, then I’m not doin’ my job right.”

“Uh,” Gerard managed, but at least it sounded less panicky.

Frank looked at him again. “Fuck, c’mere,” he said, wrapping himself around Gerard.

Gerard hugged him back, a little awkwardly. “Do we hug?”

“We kiss, we fuck, we text, and I just talked to your wife. We hug, motherfucker, deal with it.”  
Gerard obligingly melted in his arms.

“Better. Now, would you freak out less if I took off my shirt like last time, or do you want to talk, or both?”

“Hmm.” Gerard squeezed Frank’s hip, more comfortable now that there were two clear-cut options which sounded harder to fuck up. “You are wearing an awful lot.”

Frank reached for the buttons of his shirt, but Gerard caught his hand, sinking into a comfortable line. “Hey, hey, it’s rude to unwrap somebody else’s present.”

Frank laughed. “There’s some kinda rule, right?” He puffed out his chest a little. 

Gerard undid each button slowly and methodically, his eyes dark and cool as Frank offered first one wrist, then the other. Gerard thumbed open the cuffs without fumbling, tugged on one sleeve and slowly peeled off the shirt, stepping back. He looked at Frank, taking in every detail of design and enjoying the way the white undershirt didn’t completely cover the tattoos. He could almost make them out. It was tantalizing. It was tattoo lingerie, and Gerard was a total sucker for it.

For his part, Frank stuck his thumb in his belt loops, angled himself slightly, lifted his chin towards the light, let his eyes go heavy-lidded and tense at the same time, tensed his jaw.

“Fuck. Fuck. Can I, please…” Gerard’s fingers twitched. 

Frank’s face broke into an impish grin, shattering his model look, and he grabbed Gerard’s hand and put it on the hem of his undershirt. “Already said you could, doofus.”

Gerard pulled the thin cotton over Frank’s head and dropped the shirt on the floor. “Sometime I ought to hire you as a canvas, break out a bunch of Sharpies, fill in all the blank spots.”

“You draw?” 

“Yeah.” Gerard traced his fingers over Frank’s chest lightly. “Haven’t done much besides doodle for a while, but yeah.”

“Okay, I gotta ask. You like ‘em so much, why don’t you have any? Shit, if I were you I’d be ink all over, damn the man, right?” 

“Needles.” Gerard shrugged, his hands brushing against the button of Frank’s jeans.

“Fair.” Frank smirked. “Well, you wanna rent yourself a canvas, just be sure to bring a camera or a shitload of mirrors so I can see them all.” 

“Fair,” Gerard echoed. “So. What’s in the bag?” Gerard jerked his chin over by the door where it sat.

“What did you think I’d bring?” Frank opened the messenger bag and took hold of the riding crop by its handle. He’d had to bend it to get it to fit, so he removed it slowly and steadily, handle first, so it looked as though it was emerging straight from a bag smaller than it was. Sometimes the oldest bits of showmanship were the best. He set it on the coffee table, followed by a rubber-coated bit gag with a leather bridle.

Gerard’s cock was practically twitching in his pants. He sat down on the couch, thinking about how he felt about this. “You really fuckin’ brought them. Goddamn.”

“I really fuckin’ did. You still into it?”

Gerard nodded.

“You have a safeword? I usually do green-yellow-red, red meaning stop, not necessarily stop everything, but also stop, something has to change, yeah?” Frank had no intention of ever letting things get difficult, but going through the entire spiel was important for establishing communication and trust, important for protocol, important for teaching a client how to work kink into an escort framework, and best of all, Frank was fucking charming at it.

“It’s been a little while, but yeah, me too.” Gerard smiled wryly, thinking of his first few times.

Frank picked up the bit. “And how about this? You ever safeworded while gagged?” 

“Not yet.” 

Frank crouched down and held it out to Gerard. “Okay, then, we’re gonna practice. You’re in a band, you know how to practice, right?” He gently put the rubber between Gerard’s teeth and stepped away, not fastening the buckle, leaving it and the bridle dangling. “You need anything to change, you lift your hand, you shake your head, and you say ‘uh-uh’, got it?”

Gerard nodded.

“Practice time, rockstar.” Frank crouched back down, making eye contact. “You need a drink of water, what do you do.”

Gerard shook his head, lifted his fingers off his thigh. “Uh-uh.” 

“Good.” Frank nodded approvingly. “You need me to stop, what do you do.”

“Uh-uh.”

“Good. You need to change position, what do you do.”

“Uh-uh.”

“Good. Your fuckin’ balls itch, what do you do.”

Gerard laughed, caught by surprise, and clenched his teeth around the rubber so it wouldn’t slip. His eyes twinkled at Frank as he shook his head and lifted his hand one more time. “Uh-uh.”

“Good.” Frank took hold of the bit and put it back on the table before launching himself at the couch and getting himself straddled over Gerard.

Gerard squawked, finding himself under Frank, suddenly shirtless, and being kissed hungrily. “Why are you still wearing pants?”

“Couldn’t I ask you the same thing?” Gerard mumbled with a mouth half-full of Frank’s tongue.

Frank pulled back, bit down on his lip ring and let it roll slowly from between his teeth. “Horses,” he said, grinning cheekily, “don’t wear jeans.”

“Fuck you,” Gerard rolled his eyes.

“You can, hotstuff, you totally can, but first you’re gonna let me bridle you, right?”

Gerard reached for the top button of his fly. Frank squirmed off of him to give him room, helping him pull his jeans and briefs off the rest of the way before picking the bit back up.

“You have any idea how good you look with something in your mouth? You know how much it makes me want to shove my dick down your throat?”

Gerard licked his lips slowly and opened his mouth, a challenge, an offer. His lips shone with saliva. Frank put the bit in his mouth and buckled it at the back of his head, wrapping the lead around his fist and standing. He picked up the riding crop and touched Gerard’s cheek with it, and guided him over to the bed.

"I want you on your hands and knees, little pony." Frank gave him a few taps with the riding crop, just hard enough to make a good slapping noise. "Lookit you, like a little fucking Shetland or something, all shaggy and just too fuckin' cute." He gave Gerard's ass a little bit of a harder tap with the crop. "No, over there. Feet up by the pillow, good horsey, there’s a good boy.” 

Frank let the leather of the crop skate over Gerard’s skin as he walked around the bed, reaching out with his left hand to ruffle the guy’s hair. He couldn’t resist taking a handful of the bridle and tugging up and back, making Gerard’s neck muscles stand out, his eyes widen, his lips slacken a little as he drew in a quick breath around the bit. Frank wrapped the bridle around his hand and got a handful of hair, too, just to keep him there, so focused on Frank, so fucking pretty. 

“Lookit you,” he echoed himself. “All trusting and shit. You know I’m gonna hurt you, and you’re gonna take it for me, huh.”

Gerard’s head moved up and down, just the tiny bit that Frank would allow, and that was hot, too. Frank firmed up his grip, lifted the crop, and let it fly, striking Gerard’s right flank. It made a good solid _thwack_ and Gerard gasped before groaning deep in his chest. Frank gave him another on the other side and enjoyed the same reaction before laying down the crop and getting his hands on the bit’s buckle. Two strokes wasn’t much, but it was enough to remind somebody what it was like. What he could be in for, if he wanted to be. What Frank could slowly work him through for hours, if he just said the word. Frank pulled the leather back, releasing the catch. He held out his hand for the bit, and Gerard delicately tilted his head forward, letting the rubber fall from his mouth. Frank put it next to the crop.

“Good ponies get a treat.” Frank undid the fly of his jeans, looking down. “And since I forgot to bring sugar cubes,” he joked, looking over at Gerard, hoping for a smile.

He didn’t get one. Gerard had moved to the edge of the bed, still on his hands and knees, face about as close to Frank’s crotch as he could get it without falling off or nudging his nose into Frank’s hands.

“Goddamn, okay, okay, hang on.” Frank leaned over to pick up the crop again, and giggled a little. “Here’s the thing, pony. You can have your treat.” He pulled down the elastic of his boxer briefs, enjoying the way Gerard’s lips curved, the way his eyes focused on Frank’s cock. “But you get the crop too, if you do. Understand?”

Gerard whinnied. No-shit _whinnied_. 

“Oh my fucking god, you’re killin’ me.”

Gerard looked up sharply, tossed his head a little.

“No, no, Gerard. In the best fucking way. Here, c’mon, good pony, you’ve earned it.” Frank stepped forward to give him access, and Gerard lowered his head, stretching out his neck, looking for all the world like a picky show horse who’d finally been given the right kind of hay.

Frank was never going to be able to watch the Kentucky Derby again without getting a boner, but the thought faded as Gerard’s lips closed around his cock. Fucking heaven. He’d been a little afraid that his client would be all exacting and insist that horses are the licking type, but no, looked like Gerard missed cocksucking. A lot.

Frank remembered what he was doing, and put his hand gently on the back of Gerard’s head to steady himself, letting his other hand trail the leather tip of the crop down the pale skin of his back to his ass.

Gerard ‘mmmed’ softly around his cock, busily trying to get his tongue out far enough to lick Frank’s balls while he had a dick down his throat. 

Frank tapped the crop against his skin, at first not even loud enough to make any noise. Little raindrops. Then, light slaps.

Gerard’s hips began to move, the tiniest of thrusts in the air above the bed.

“Oh my holy living fuck,” Frank purred. “How much did you miss this, hmm?” He gave Gerard a sharper slap with the crop to punctuate his question. 

Gerard went from bobbing his head to moving his whole body, pushing with his arms and thigh muscles to sway down onto Frank’s cock and back.

“So fucking good, and now you’re humping the goddamn sheets.” Frank curled his fingers in Gerard’s hair, pulling lightly. “Can’t decide whether I want to fuck your mouth or welt that perfect ass.”

Gerard let out a choked whimper, swallowing down Frank’s cock. He could feel the ripple down, the wave of Gerard’s tongue, the clench of his throat around the tip, all hot, all wet, earnest, eager, bright-edged pleasure.

Frank let up a little. “Easy, eaaasy.” He let go of Gerard’s hair, smoothed it down, let his hand drift to his ear, the hollowed cheek. “Don’t want to spook the horse when you ‘encourage’ it, hmm?”

Gerard tensed up obligingly. Frank leaned over with exaggerated care, aimed the crop and let fly. Just once, but hard. It’d welt, raise up pink-red and angry, and Frank could tell just by the feel of it. He was ready to give Gerard a moment to think through the pain, to pull back. Hell, he was even ready for the feeling of teeth. People reacted in different ways, and Frank was sanguine about that.

He hadn’t been ready for Gerard redoubling his efforts, for the buzz of an anguished moan and for his client to go nuts on his dick. Licking, sucking, swallowing down, tongue moving, his fist tight in the sheets.

“Oh, gooooood boy. So good,” Frank panted. “Careful, now, you keep that up, it’s gonna be hard to stop.” Frank’s fingers tightened around the crop, and he let a few more strokes fall. Gerard just seemed to lean into it, moaning harder, his hips moving faster. “You sure this is what you want? Because if you want me to give you a mouthful of cum, I will.”

Gerard looked up at Frank. He had blowjob-eyes, all wet and dark and dilated, and he didn’t pause for a moment.

“Only if you get your hand on your cock. I want you to come while I’m fucking your mouth, want to feel you scream around my dick, c’mon, you can do it, remember last time when I shoved my fingers in your mouth, you came so fucking hard…”

Gerard wasted no time rearranging himself, one set of fingers wrapped around the base of Frank’s shaft and one around his own, welted ass tensed and thrusting. Frank dropped the crop and got both hands in Gerard’s hair and didn’t stop talking except to moan.

“C’mon, c’mon, yes, you must be pretty close already, jesus christ, look at that ass of yours, all of those pretty pink marks you let me make, your mouth, shit, your mouth was just made to be stuffed full of cock...” 

Gerard grunted, a low and desperate sound, and Frank could see his shoulder and the muscles in it, tense and moving. 

“You already thinking about how it feels when you’re stuffed full of cock other places, hmm? Or maybe what my mouth looks like on you, fuckfuckfuck, you ready, tell me you’re fucking ready to come, Gerard…”

Frank’s hands tightened hard in Gerard’s hair, and Gerard tasted precum and saw stars and took one last gulp of air, and lost his mind. He was buzzing, warm, stretched, overcome with endorphins-musk-hands-leather-ink- _Frank_ , and that was it, he was just coming his brains out and trying not to choke, letting out a muffled groan and a sigh before realizing he hadn’t gotten Frank off yet, and bringing up a come-slick hand to cup Frank’s balls and dive down deep, so deep he felt Frank come more than he tasted it.

Frank disengaged, steadying himself on the bedspread for a moment before pulling up his shorts and buttoning up his jeans. He rolled Gerard over on his back, kissed his forehead, and said, “Back in a sec.” Then it was the familiar ritual. Turn on water, fill cup, switch to hot, key in code to agency, grab washcloth, wipe off dick, grab hand towel, wet half of hand towel, wring out, open door. Cup on bedside table, wipe off client with wet half, dry with dry half, offer water.

There were some things Frank wished he were less good at.

“Oh my god stop being so…. so fuckin’ _productive_ and tidy.” Gerard grabbed his arm. “C’mere?”

“I’m here,” Frank said lightly, and crawled on the bed, his feet on the pillows by Gerard’s.

“We cuddle, motherfucker.” Gerard hooked a leg over Frank’s effortlessly, pulling him in. He was warm, and he had strong hands and arms, but he wasn’t all angles. Nice for cuddling, Frank decided, and sank his nose into Gerard’s hair. 

“What time is it?”

Frank dug his phone out of his pocket. “Eight thirty.”

“I don’t remember how much longer you can stay,” Gerard said, and there wasn’t any weight to it. He just sounded like it had slipped his mind.

“Till eleven,” Frank answered, relieved. Time was something that clients often wanted to argue about. You’d think with an agency like Elite, the customers wouldn’t be like that, but his clients were often the sorts of people used to getting what they wanted. That’s why the agency sent cars at the end of appointments, complete with imposing ex-military drivers.

“Well, two and a half hours ought to be long enough to get you out of your pants,” Gerard joked, tugging on one of Frank’s belt loops.

“I can’t actually believe I’ve kept them on this long,” Frank replied, unbuttoning his jeans again and squirming out of them and his underwear. “There. Better?”

Gerard grabbed his ass. “Better for cuddling.”

“Jesus, you’re so demanding. Next you’ll want to be at the end of the bed with the pillows, or under the blankets, or something.”

“That sounds like I’d have to move, or fucking work or something, so, no. Oh, hey, speaking of which, Linds says I should ask you which shirt I should wear tomorrow, because apparently I am not qualified to make these decisions.”

“Wear the black one.” Frank nodded.

“See, that’s what _I_ said, but… hey. Wait.”

Frank collapsed into giggles.

“Shuddup!” Gerard shoved Frank’s shoulder. “I can’t believe I fell for that shit.”

Frank caught his breath. “Okay, okay, what would I say to my lead vocalist, let me think. Oh, I know, ‘Which one is clean?’”

“Um.” Gerard looked as though he was prepared to consider that question at great length.

“No, man, just. No. You are a rockstar at a hotel, who has to go on fucking television tomorrow. If you don’t already know what you’re wearing on stage, you should know whether it’s clean, and should let me take care of it if it’s not.”

Gerard sighed.

“Okay, are your clothes for tomorrow even up here, or do you keep stage clothes somewhere else?”

“They’re here.” Gerard looked monumentally put-upon.

“Right.” Frank rolled over Gerard, who squawked unhappily, and picked up the room phone. “Yeah, hi, 3432, could you connect me to Reuben, please, at the concierge desk? Thanks. ...hey, Reuben, it’s Frank, from EES? No, no, everything’s fine, you’re great. I’m in 3432, though, and I’ve got a client who needs some laundry done like yesterday. Any way you can help me take care of it for him? You’re a saint, Reuben, thank you.” Frank hung up.

Gerard’s mouth was hanging open “How did you even---?”

“Doing weird shit for famous people in hotels is sort of my day job. It’s a concierge’s, too. Now, will you tell me where your clothes are, or do I have to play hot-and-cold, hmmm?”

“Top two drawers.” Gerard flipped himself around and got under the covers.

Frank hopped over to the closet and pulled out two bathrobes and the hotel laundry bag. He threw a robe Gerard’s way, slipped on the other, and opened the drawers, filling the bag with shirts. The pants he checked the pockets of before throwing in, and upon finding a couple of singles in a pair of jeans, said, “You’re tipping with these, is that okay?” There was a knock on the door, and Frank unlocked it, handed the gentleman everything he was holding, nodded, and shut and re-locked the door.

He looked over at Gerard triumphantly. “I have now taken _all_ of your pants. I think I win the pants game.”

Gerard laughed, showing his teeth, then began counting off on his fingers. “Yeah. I took off your shirt, you took off all my clothes. I got you to take off your pants, and you took all of my clothing in the entire room away. What is that, the fucking nuclear option, jesus.” He laughed some more, and it sounded good. 

Frank wanted to wrap himself up in that laugh, and he laughed, too. “Well, I never said I didn’t cheat. Oh my god, I could publish a guide: How to Get Gerard Way Naked. It’d be a bestseller.”

“Yeah, it’d be great. Step one: get him to blow you. Step two: take all his shit. Somehow, I don’t think it’d be that accessible to the reading public, given the decline in my cocksucking since high school.” Gerard reached for his lighter and cigarettes, grinning and rolling his eyes. “Want one?”

“Yeah, I’ll happily take that shit from you, too.” They lit up and got settled on the bed, the ashtray between them. “Okay, so how much dick did you suck in high school, anyway.”

“Not that much. I was a weird loner kid, drank by myself a lot. I mighta gone down on more dudes in college. Probably not.”

Frank blew a plume of smoke at the ceiling. “Well, I think you turned out pretty good.” He said it softly. Then he waggled his eyebrows. “Course, that’s coming from me, and I suck a lot of dick, so I probably think that’s healthy.”

Gerard groaned. “Fuck, you have to stop.” He took another drag, pressing the heel of his hand against a growing bulge under his bathrobe.

“Why, because you don’t like it when I talk about sucking other people’s cocks, or because you _really_ like it when I talk about sucking other people’s cocks?”

Gerard stubbed out his cigarette. “Because I really like it when you talk about… shit, about anything.”

“Right, I’ll shut up then.” Frank took the last few puffs from his Marlboro and French-inhaled, his eyes fluttering shut dramatically. 

It was utterly pornographic. “Jesuschrist.” Gerard muttered, and held out the ashtray for him before putting it on the table.

“See, this is why I couldn’t be in a band with you. Can you imagine me up there singing your... prison sex song, or whatever, my hands caressing my big,” his fingers wandered down his bathrobe for emphasis, “hard... fretboard?”

“Yeah, I think you’re right. I’d just spend all my time fucking swooning and forgetting how to sing.” Gerard put his fist on his chest and the back of his other hand on his forehead, the picture of melodrama. Frank laughed, and Gerard dropped his arms to tug on Frank’s robe. “Although, I dunno, I feel pretty invincible onstage. You might have to learn to manage _your_ constant swooning.”

“Mmmm. Work, work, work,” Frank sighed, and pulled Gerard close, a smirk on his face. He had a moment to think again about how much he liked this guy as their lips and tongues met. Frank didn’t get a lot of clients his age, or ones that would get guitar jokes, or ones who could be this laid-back. Gerard was a trifecta, and he had that flash of charisma that highlights a good performer. And he was a really good kisser. Frank didn’t get that with most of his clients, “boyfriend experience” not usually being his turf. He kissed his way along Gerard’s jaw and down to his neck, thinking. 

Gerard shuddered. Frank shifted his weight, sliding his fingers beneath the terrycloth of Gerard’s bathrobe. He let everything flow out of his mind, everything but the easy rhythm of give, take, pull, push. Soon the robes were on the floor, their mouths and hands were on each other, and Gerard was being noisy as hell, gasping and moaning and writhing.

Frank bit his earlobe and leaned in for the kill: “Tell me what you want, Gerard.” 

He got a low grunt in response. “Unhh. Everything.” Frank squeezed the base of his cock, fingers splaying to trace his balls, encouraging. “I don’t know. Pretty sure I want you to fuck the shit outta me, though,” Gerard managed, his mouth wrapping again around Frank’s nipple.

“That can be arranged.” Frank gave him one last squeeze and slid off the bed to get his bag. “Lay down for me, hotstuff.”

Gerard squirmed down in the bed, kicking the covers off awkwardly. Frank returned with condoms and lube, the latter already open. He squirted a dollop into his palms and got between Gerard’s outstretched legs. A hand on his cock, fingers on his asshole, and a mouth on his balls. There was no accounting for the differences of human experience or whatever, Frank thought, but with a little practice, you could please most dudes.

Gerard, for instance, was going out of his mind. “F-Frank, Frank, Frank, jesuschrist, I want… holyshit, get the hell up here and fuck me.”

“Hmmm, you sure?” Frank’s voice buzzed against his skin, all warm breath and vibrating promise.

“Yes, yes, please. Yes.” Gerard gasped as he pulled away, abruptly feeling cold and empty and hard enough to burst. Frank laid on top of him, eyes bright, lips red.

“How do you want to be fucked, Gerard?” Frank punctuated the question with a roll of his hips. It should have been corny and sleazy, but like most things about Frank, it was just hot.

“I want you behind me,” Gerard said, but it came out sounding like a question.

Frank slid off Gerard and nudged him to roll over, pulling him up on his hands and knees, rubbing his dick along the cleft of his ass, hard and hot and unmistakable in its pressure and direction, and that was it, there were no more questions in Gerard’s mind. “Like this, or lying down, or…?”

“Like this,” Gerard picked up the nearby condom, opening it hurriedly. He knelt up and fumbled behind himself blindly, sighing with contentment when he got his hands on Frank to put it on. 

Frank grabbed his shoulder to steady them both, the ink on his fingers vibrant against Gerard’s pale skin as he reached for the lube with his other hand, pouring some on himself and a good percentage of Gerard’s hands in the bargain.

He closed the lid, dropped the bottle, and leaned against Gerard, letting his hands slide down. One to brush down across Gerard’s shoulders and hold him across the chest, one to join his fingers with Gerard’s. He was just going to finish putting on the condom, slick himself up good, and get to it, but his fingers wandered. It was like he and Gerard knelt there together for ages, Frank letting his forehead rest against the nape of Gerard’s neck, three hands on Frank’s cock, all touching, entwining, exploring, warm, wet, slow. 

Gerard was quiet, lost in tiny sensations, breathing funny and wobbling a little on his knees on the soft mattress, but feeling steady, balanced by three focal points. Frank’s forehead at the top of his spine, Frank’s cock at the base of his spine, Frank’s arm around his chest. Frank was beautiful. Frank took care of him. Frank was doing a job, and had a life, and was going to go away. He breathed in and let it go. 

He lifted his hips and pressed his hands a little lower, angling. Frank got the hint and readjusted, slowly bowing Gerard forward, letting him get his hands under himself. “Yes.”

“Yes?” Frank pushed forward a little, a tease, a taste.

“Yes.” Gerard’s voice trailed off into a hiss as his back arched, his hair brushing across his shoulders. “I want it all, c’mon, make me fucking scream, Frankie.”

Frank got one hand on Gerard’s hip and pressed another into the small of his back and held tight and thrust, not too quickly but with a solid weight, hard. He pulled out, just an inch or two, and slid back in.

Gerard cried out, easing down onto his elbows, bracing himself. “C’mon, please just fucking…”

Frank sped up, his shallow strokes lengthening, and Gerard keened. “God, listen to you, you want more, fuck, I got you, baby.” Frank could tell what he needed and did his best to give it, but it wasn’t until he had a fistful of Gerard’s hair and was slamming into him, pounding his body into the mattress, that Gerard’s voice deepened, desperate gasps turning to grateful grunts and groans. “Good, baby, good, so fucking good, you gonna get a hand on your dick, you gonna jerk it for me or do you want me to, gonna come for me while I’m fucking your ass, c’mon, I wanna feel it while I’m coming inside you, gonna shoot so hard.” Frank kept up the patter, let it run uncensored.

Frank. Was. Killing. Him. It was like the shit he said short-circuited Gerard’s brain. He lifted a hand from the mattress, fully intending for it to wind up below his waist -- and found that his hand just paused in midair, shaking for a moment before it slammed against the headboard, fingers clenched. He was braced, pushing back in time with Frank, moaning so loudly he was practically yelling, his body just reaching out for whatever felt right.

“Oh my fucking shit look at you, like you’re gonna come any second, c’mere, c’mere,” Frank reached down, curling himself around Gerard and wrapping his fingers gracelessly around his cock, hand slippery-wet now with precome. He could feel Gerard tightening up, hear him gritting his teeth around his cries, see the muscles in his shoulders harden. “Yeah, yeah, shit, gotta see you lose it with me balls-deep in your ass, fucking pretty, you know that, fuck, fuck, Ge _rard_ , Christ.”

Gerard’s knees shook and he came, grunting low and loud like it had been torn from his throat, and he distantly noticed the way he collapsed into the mattress, the feeling of warmth and wetness on his belly, the way Frank fell into it with him and didn’t stop, put a hand on his back and slammed into him, the way it made his vision fuzz a little, like his orgasm was dissolving into static, the way Frank said his name again and again, and then slumped against him, panting, almost immediately starting to move off him. “Stay,” Gerard mumbled.

“Gross.” Frank’s lips moved on the sticky skin of Gerard’s back.

“Don’care.” Gerard shivered and twitched, hand falling from the headboard, ass clenching weakly at Frank’s cock.

“Fuck. Okay.” Frank pawed soothingly in the general direction of Gerard’s hair. “Okay.” They lay there until their breathing slowed, until Frank slipped out of Gerard, until the sweat on their skin cooled. Frank kissed Gerard’s back and rolled away as gently as he could, pulling off the condom, lurching off to the bathroom to throw it out, wash his hands, drink some water, set the cup on the nightstand, fall back in bed.

“Nngh, time is it.” Gerard curled up with the pillow, looking fondly at Frank. His hair was mussed, his expression content. Frank kissed him. 

“I’ve got fifteen minutes.”

Gerard hummed. “Good. Fuck, I’m gonna sleep so well tonight.”

Frank remembered last time, lying there tense and being ready to wait out the night, but being lulled to sleep by Gerard’s breathing. Waking up next to him and thinking he’d died ‘cause he slept so hard he hadn’t seemed to move. The way he’d pulled the coffee Frank had made him under the blanket, like he was some kind of coffee-slurping nookie monster, it was fucking adorable. Frank could stay, could call off the car, could do that all again if he wanted. And oh, he wanted. 

Which was exactly why he couldn’t do it. “Yeah you are,” he said, instead.

Gerard smiled so his nose wrinkled. “Is it weird that I wanna see you play? Plus I never get to see bands anymore, it seems like, unless I’m at a festival or somebody’s on before or after us, and it’s different, you know, you’re not really allowed to, like, fucking lose yourself in the crowd, you’re busy getting ready to work, even just mentally.”

Frank laughed. “Yeah, I know. I dunno, man, we play for drink tickets in dives and shit half the time, you know?”

“You think we never did?” Gerard raised an eyebrow.

Frank rolled his eyes, and squawked when he got a pillow in the face. He tickled Gerard, who pinched his elbow, and they rolled and tussled happily until Frank, who had Gerard pinned at the moment, looked over at the clock and back down. He kissed Gerard’s forehead with a loud smacking sound. “Okay, pants, motherfucker, mine and yours. Not that you have to put yours on.” He jumped off the bed and started getting dressed. 

Gerard found his bathrobe on the floor and pulled it on. “Wait, what do you mean by my pants, then.”

Frank pulled on his shirt and opened the door to the room, picking up the bag of fresh and folded laundry. “I mean these, hotstuff.”

“You are a wizard.” Gerard took the bag and opened it. “A sorcerer. A high-level magic user, is what I’m saying.”

Frank finished buttoning his shirt and picked up his messenger bag, stowing away the bit, crop, and lube. “Complete with high dex. Low constitution, though. Okay, I’m out of here. Text me anytime, rockstar.” He waved and hustled out the door, grabbing his phone from his pocket so he could dial the agency for the usual post-appointment call.

Gerard set out his outfit for the next day, raising an eyebrow at the sharp creases and aggressive smell of lavender. He snapped a photo with his phone and sent it to Linds with the caption, _Had a great time, with brief interlude 4 laundry apparently_.

He went to go brush his teeth, and found a reply from her waiting when he returned to the bed.  
_OMG I think I’m in love._

Gerard sighed, and thumbed out a text before turning out the light: _Me too. :/_

+++++++++++++++++++

Frank went home and had a couple of beers. Okay, five. It should have been easy. Hot shower, shutting his mind down, and then bed. He knew the drill. He had practice pulling his thoughts away from the things he’d done. He would review them, acknowledge them, and let them go, and consider the future. He could finally afford to revamp his pedalboard, for instance. Invest in some band merch, get a print run of stickers. Press a demo of new songs. Okay, after monthly expenses, probably just one of those.

Sighing deeply, Frank turned on the water for the shower, stepping in under the spray when it reached the uncomfortably hot temperature he preferred. He mindlessly washed his hair and body, even taking time to pumice his heels, wash his nail beds, deep condition his hair, things he did for the sake of the agency. All the while, his brain wouldn’t shut off. Kept thinking about Gerard and his stupid crooked teeth and little giggle and D&D jokes and how well they fit together. He stayed in the shower until the water started to run cold and couldn’t turn off his damn brain.

He made a cup of tea with honey, drinking it slowly and washing the cup in the sink when he was done. He even made a point to stretch before hitting the sack. 

As he slid between the sheets, he knew that sleep would be a long time coming. 

Fuck. He had fallen in love with Gerard. He was such a cliche. But it didn’t feel like a cliche at all - not easy and predictable like a cliche should be. It just felt like shit. Frank was better than this. He wasn’t so easily charmed. Hell, he wasn’t even looking for anyone. He was in this job for the paycheck, trying to get his band off the ground, damnit. He knew he sounded like one of those people in the industry who always say they’re going to retire and never do, but he couldn’t help it. This was just supposed to be a means to an end, and his heart wasn’t supposed to get involved. 

He was the damn idiot who programmed his number into Gerard’s phone. He was the one who started it when he knew better. There were rules, and he broke them. Now he was done with that. He couldn’t see Gerard anymore. Not as a client. No more texting, either. Cold turkey, just quit and be done with it. He sighed and rolled out of bed, pulling up Elite’s scheduling system. He opened the right dialogue boxes and clicked all of the right buttons and boxes. No further appointments with this client, personal reasons. Yes, I feel safe on the job. No, I don’t recommend blacklisting or issuing a warning about this client. Yes, I will abide by the NDA. He hit “Confirm” one last time and powered down his laptop.

Maybe, in some other universe, he and Gerard could have been friends. Or fuck, could have ended up in the same band. While he was dreaming, why not imagine a house and kids, maybe alongside Linds, whom he’d never even met. He was fantasizing about a white picket fucking fence with a rockstar and a woman who was just a laughing voice on the phone.

He fell asleep with a cold heaviness in his belly. 

+++++Week One++++++

Gerard loved EES’s online booking system. It was sleek and streamlined and professional-looking. He might have been scheduling a reservation at a restaurant, or for a haircut, except sites like those didn’t have such perfect interfaces. He figured Frank was always booked on weekends, but he had a couple of free hours on Sunday before they left, and maybe if he saw Frank one more time, he’d just… get it out of his system. Yeah, that was it.

But when he noticed that Frank had a schedule-able window and clicked on it, he got an error message.

“Selected professional is no longer booking with this account. Please select another professional.”

He frowned, scrolling down. He tapped the number at the bottom of the screen and hit “call,” holding the phone to his ear. 

A warm female voice answered. “Elite Events Solutions. How can we be of service, Mr. Way?”

“Oh. Um, hi. I was on your website and I noticed that there’s maybe something wrong with my account? I got an error message that said I should ‘select another professional.’ What does that mean?”

“I’m sorry you’re experiencing difficulty. Can you hold while I look up your account details?”

“Sure, no problem.” Gerard swallowed, listening to the jazz on the line.

“Mr. Way? I’m sorry to make you wait,” the receptionist apologized, after a whole fifteen second delay. “I’ll just transfer you to the correct department, is that alright?”

“Sure, which dep---” A saxophone solo cut him off.

“Hello.” A brisk male voice. “How can I help you?”

Gerard explained once more. 

“Aha, I see,” said the man, under the sound of fingers tapping on a keyboard. His tone deepened and lengthened, like a radio host just launching into a favorite spiel. “This happens occasionally, when an escort is not available but the system has yet to update itself. I apologize for the glitch, and I’ve credited your account with thirty minutes of platinum time. Is there anything else with which I may help you? Selecting another of our talented professionals, perhaps?”

“Ah, no, that won’t be necessary. Sorry. Thanks.” Gerard hung up, completely confused and feeling awful. He didn’t want a talented professional. He didn’t want platinum time. He didn’t even know what platinum time _was_. He wanted Frank. Frank and his low laugh and the way he wasn’t afraid to roll his eyes at Gerard. His grace, and his calloused hands, and his random jokes about fucking hopscotch. The way he ate veggie burgers and talked with his mouth full.

Gerard opened a notebook and scrawled out a few terrible lyrics, the sort that would never see the light of day, and went to bed.

The next day he picked up his phone, hoping for a text. Nothing new. He sighed and composed one, deleting it several times until he settled on, _“Hey, hope you’re okay. Thx for everything. xo G”_ and hit Send.

He tried to put it out of his mind. He had to do a radio interview in an hour.

++++++++++Week Two++++++++++

Frank had made it an entire week without texting Gerard. But he hadn’t made it an entire week without listening to him sing. MCR was hitting the top of his music rotation, and he’d spent some time looking at the videos of their performances this year. They were wearing these vests with crossed guns on them. He doodled them from time to time, thinking about his next tattoo.

He called Jamia. “Hey, Frankie! What’s up?”

“Not much. Hey, you wanna get a beer tonight and, I dunno, like, bitch about work?” As a receptionist for Elite, Jamia didn’t have to deal with the same exact sorts of things Frank did, but she knew and talked to a lot of Elite’s escorts, and handled the customers. Hell, because of that, J often had to put up with a lot more shit than he did. 

“Sounds like good times. Tony’s at eight?” 

“Yeah, see you there.”

It was good to see her. She let him talk it out, she laughed when he did, she didn’t judge, just nodded and waited for him to finish telling the whole story.

“So,” Frank took a pull of beer. “That’s why I’m fucking stupid.”

“You’re not stupid. People have feelings attached to mating, that’s how the human race has managed to survive. It’s only natural, and I think you’re doing the right thing. And if after a little while you and he start talking again, well, maybe you can see where that shit goes. Without the company coming between you.”

“Yeah.” Frank nodded. “Yeah. So, if I got a tattoo about it, that wouldn’t be weird?”

“It would be weird if it said ‘I had gay sex with Gerard Way and all I got was this lousy tattoo,’ but that doesn’t seem like your style anyway,” she joked.

“Fuck you,” he said, and kicked her foot under the table. She kicked his shin harder. 

He felt better.

+++++++++++++++++++

“...and so I don’t want to complain to her about it because she did it for me and he is delightful, and that’s the only problem. Did you know he’s a really good guitarist? Not that I stalked him on the internet or anything, that’d be weird, but his band is on a lot of social media.” Gerard gestured expansively, wincing when his elbow hit the side of his bunk.

Mikey didn’t say anything.

“I haven’t texted him more because I don’t know what to say, and I don’t know how stupid I’m being. Maybe these…” he waved “...things are always like this, and I just didn’t know.”

Mikey raised an eyebrow.

“Oh god, you’re right, nothing is like this.” Gerard threw an arm over his face and shut up.

Mikey hugged him.

++++++++++++++++++++

Frank spent a couple of days on call, thinking maybe that throwing himself into the job was a good way to forget that he’d screwed something up on the job. It actually helped a little, reminding himself how good he was at what he did, staying busy, feeling financially successful. But it also drove the point home that Gerard wasn’t just some customer. Customers felt different.

Then came the band emails. It seemed like there was some kerfluffle once every two months with the band, and sometimes it was in person, but more often it seemed to come up through email, when nobody could really detect tone of voice or get out their frustrations by punching somebody. Usually, it blew over.

This time, it wouldn’t. Their lead singer’s fiancee had a job that was relocating her, and he was going to move to be with her. The drummer decided that this was the right time to tell everybody he was joining the army. Frank hit “Reply,” then cursed, shut his laptop, and called his favorite tattoo parlor.

“Yeah, is Jim there tonight? He got any appointments?”  
“You’re in luck, he just had a cancellation.”

Two and a half hours on the table under the buzzing needle soothed him like nothing else could. He’d inked it into his skin, inscribed the latest chapter of his life upon himself. If his body could accept it, so could he. It would hurt, and bleed, and scab, and itch, but it would become part of him like every other piece. Plus, he could get a lot of mileage out of “tramp stamp” jokes in his line of work. He cracked a grin as Jim bandaged his back.

He could do this. He could go home, cancel any standing appointments with EES so his back could heal, figure out how many gigs the band had left, call Jamia, and get his life back on track, one step at a time.

+++++++Week Three+++++++

Gerard was antsy as hell, and the guys weren’t helping. Toro and their most recent rhythm guitarist kept stepping on each other’s feet during intros and instrumentals, Mikey was disappearing for hours at a time, and Bob seemed to be laughing at them all.

Linds was keeping him together, but she had her own music to play, her own band to tend to.

He almost texted Frank so many times. When soundcheck dissolved into an argument. When the gig went surprisingly well anyway. But he didn’t. He didn’t text when Gerard’s newsfeed told him that Frank’s band had posted a farewell letter. When he and Mikey got some time together and he felt like things were getting back on track, he didn’t text. 

When their guitarist came up to them and said “I quit.” He didn’t text.

He called.

“It is four in the goddamn morning.” Frank sounded wonderful. Maybe a little cranky, but wonderful.

“Frank! Sorry, it’s only three here. Listen, I’m sorry for waking you up but I was wondering if there was any chance you could get on a plane with a guitar.”

“Ger...Gerard?”

“Yeah, sorry, things have been weird and our rhythm guitarist just quit and everything is kind of awful but our next tour date isn’t for four days, so that might be enough time, and I guess there are some other people we could ask but to be honest that hasn’t gone very well so far and I just thought maybe, I mean, I don’t know, maybe you hate me, but maybe you don’t.” Gerard caught his breath.

“Gerard? Hang, hang on,” Frank fumbled for a glass of water and tried to sit up. “Okay, now, fuck, you want me to do what now?”

“I want you to get on a plane with a guitar and come to O’Hare and audition to serve as a temporary replacement for, I don’t know, I think a minimum of six performances to get our shit straightened out, and then we can see how things go after that, and for that to happen you’ll probably have to catch the eight forty-five outta Newark which is why I’m calling you now, but to do any of that you’d have to be talking to me.” Gerard’s voice sounded incredibly level and professional right up ‘til the end, when it cracked a little. “Are you talking to me, Frankie?” 

“I’m talking to you right now. Jesus, how much coffee have you had. Okay, did you say the eight forty-five out of Newark?”

There was a long silence.

“You’re… you’ll do it?”

“Only for you, hotstuff.” Frank let his working persona field that, tried not to think about the vulnerability in Gerard’s voice while he thought about where he might find a dogsitter on short notice. He cleared his throat, dropping the familiar mask. “I’ll… figure it out, text you the arrival details or whatever. We can figure out our personal shit when we have time.”

“Oh-kay.” Gerard took a deep breath. “Your confirmation code is T3Q94J, boarding time is eight fifteen. You’re flying United. I’ll text you the details.”

“You… booked my ticket? You knew I’d say yes?” Frank sounded as confused as he felt.

“Not in a million fucking years.” Gerard, for his part, sounded suddenly exhausted. “See you at noon.” Gerard hung up, rolled over, and got a good night’s sleep for the first time in three weeks.

+++++++++++++++++++++

Frank was just lucky that his mom was an early riser and willing to do random shit like pick up him and his dog and take him to the airport and then dogsit for an indeterminate length of time. 

Mostly he was asleep, half believing this was a weird-ass dream. He managed to get his guitar on the plane, thanks to a stewardess with a soft heart and space in the first-class coat closet.

By the time the cart came around and she handed him a cup of coffee, it was sinking in. He was flying across the fucking country on three hours’ notice to play for a fucking john he’d fucking fallen for, in his platinum-record-selling fucking band, in the hopes of… what? Fixing his fucking life?

This band went through rhythm guitarists like they were kleenex, so it’s not as if he had any hope of getting a job. Gerard was married and an ex-client whom Frank had frozen out because he had inappropriate feelings for the guy. They’d had basically zero serious conversations, and if he wasn’t a nightmare to work with musically, someone else in the band probably was. Even if they actually wanted him, he’d forever be the new guy, the one who upset the dynamic, the one who had to learn things that everyone else just understood.

This was never going to work. 

++++++++++++++++++++

“You sure?” Mikey asked quietly, before Gerard took off in a cab to the airport.

“Nope. But it’s a thought. There’s a chance. Life’s too short.” Gerard buckled up, then scrubbed his face with the back of his hand, smooshing his hair into and then back out of his eyes.

“Good luck.” Mikey gave him a little smile before shutting the taxicab’s door.

Gerard chewed his lip until he tasted blood. This was never going to work.

Waiting by the baggage carousel, he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do when he saw Frank. He bit his nails, wishing for a cigarette.

“Gerard?” 

He turned around. Frank, in a leather jacket and a plaid shirt. Frank, with his dark eyes and dark hair and lip ring. Frank, with one hand stuck awkwardly in his pocket and another clutching his guitar case.

Gerard surprised himself by wrapping him in a tight embrace, one made awkward by the guitar case but somehow perfect.

Frank squeezed him back, one-armed. “Gerard.” He said it like a sigh of relief. He set down his guitar, not letting go.

Gerard grinned. “We hug, motherfucker,” he reminded Frank.

Frank opened his eyes… to see his bag on the carousel. “Oh, shit, that one’s mine, hang on,” he muttered, jumping around people like a freak to go get it.

He pulled it off the belt and walked up to Gerard, who was holding his guitar case and eyeing Frank through his hair, looking shy and vulnerable. It reminded Frank of the first time they’d kissed.

“I missed you.” He said, meaning it.

Gerard grinned wide like a little jack-o-lantern. “Missed you too. C’mon, let’s get a car. You can meet the guys.”

+++++++++++++++++++++++

“So,” Frank began, as soon as the car had gotten free of O’Hare’s seemingly endless terminal circle traffic. “How does this work?”

Gerard’s mouth opened, but nothing came out. “I. . .” He stammered. “I don’t know.”

“Right.” Frank frowned, understanding the failure in communication. “What I _meant_ was auditioning. What I should _say_ is that I’m sorry. Company policy is that when things get weird with a client, you stop seeing the client. And I… have feelings for you and didn’t know what else to do. So I followed,” Frank paused, gesturing vaguely, “I followed the only path I had written out for me ‘cause it’s in a three-ring binder. And it was a fucking shitty thing to do. But it was easier and clearer than explaining. Calling. Asking. Whatever.”

“But I’m sorry too!” It burst forth from Gerard’s mouth like he’d been biting down on it along with his lip. “It’s not like I could call, and okay, I could, but I’d just be another fucking creep bothering you with shit like, ‘After two dates I want to date you for real so now you’ll work for free for me and stop seeing your other clients and put up with me being a complete asshole’ or whatever the fuck you probably get all the time, and it’s not what I want, I just… want you.”

Gerard heard a click and had time to see Frank move before he was pounced upon and clung to and kissed very, very thoroughly. Frank tasted like home and heat and old coffee, and Gerard held onto him, allowing himself to have a moment of not caring about anything but Frank’s mouth, about having him back. He didn’t worry about where his life was going, about how he was going to work anything out, about whether the driver was going to throw them both out of the cab, about anything. Just Frank.

But all good things must come to an end. Frank pulled away eventually, grinning. “Now, tell me how to audition for your stupid band, you fuckin’ dork.”

Gerard took a breath and became another person. A bandmate, a leader, a musician with a career, a person who worried about all of the things he had just put out of his mind. “We’ll head to the hotel, get you settled. They’re going to let us use some conference space to rehearse. Turns out all you need to do for this shit is tell someone to talk to the concierge.” Gerard smiled wryly at Frank before continuing. “First you’ll play for me and Brian. I don’t care what, so long as you know it cold. If you know anything of ours, that’d be good too, but the main thing is that I hear what you can do. Let me know if there’s anything you need. Amps, pedals, cables. If you can do backup vocals, that would be great, but no pressure, it’s not what we need right now. Ray and Mikey can cover for a while, god knows they’ve done it before.”

As he spoke, Frank clambered down and sat beside him, buckling back in, probably to the driver’s relief. “I’ve got my guitar and a small pedalboard, EQ, effects, volume. I don’t know if that’ll match up with what Ray uses or be perfect for the band’s sound, but it’ll get me through auditioning at least. Any amp you have is probably fine, I’ll need a mic if you want me to sing.” He ran his fingers through his hair, thinking. “Sure whatever cables you have are fine.”

“Great. If I like what you can do, you join us for rehearsal and we’ll take you through the current setlist, whatever you can do to follow along. We can get you charts for that and recordings if the rest of the guys like you for performing. You won’t have to memorize them all, but you’ll definitely need to get the opener, closer, and encores down, those have to be tight. We’ll find somewhere to put the charts that’s not too visible if we get that far.” Gerard nodded to himself, satisfied that he’d done due diligence.

Frank nodded back. “You got it, hotstuff.” It seemed like this would be a great time not to mention that he’d been binge-listening to their albums and watching tour videos like a total creep already.

“Shit, what else. Um… We use in-ears, and we’ll get you set up for those. If the guys like you, we’ll figure out a preliminary contract for six gigs with an option to keep you if it’s unanimous.” The cab pulled up to the hotel. “Ah, thank fuck, nobody’s here.”

Gerard stepped out and took care of the cab while Frank shouldered his gear. They walked quietly through the lobby and straight into the elevator. Gerard hit the button for the twenty-first floor and handed Frank a keycard in an envelope marked with a number. “You’re in 2116. Can you be ready to come down to the fourth floor in 45 minutes, or do you need some rest?”

“Fuck no, I’ll be ready.” 

They made their way down the hall and Gerard dropped Frank’s bag at the door, turning to leave “Great, I’ll go get you a mic and everything. And hey, Frank?”

Frank turned, suddenly terrified that this was the part where he woke up. But it wasn’t. Or, at least, not yet, because Gerard was grabbing him with two fists, one in his hair, one in his shirt, and shoving his tongue down Frank’s throat. Frank tried to give as good as he was getting, but in the end, he just let Gerard take what he needed. 

Gerard broke it off and Frank gasped, getting a breath of air and a pang of shock at how astoundingly fucking hard he was. 

“Please don’t suck.” Gerard said it fervently, his eyes wide, pink in his cheeks.

“I’ll do what I can, Gerard.” Frank meant to say it smoothly, confidently, and mostly it came out that way, but with a sad, nervous smile. What if he _did_ suck? He shook it from his mind. “Promise.”

Gerard nodded once and walked away down the hall, leaving Frank to get everything in the door, shower, tune his guitar obsessively, write five possible songs on a piece of hotel notepaper, and freak out for twenty minutes solid before going down to the fourth floor.

He still got there five minutes early, walking across the patterned carpet past empty rooms with closed doors marked with the names of trees. _It’s always trees or presidents_ , he thought, searching for an open door. 

Oak C was open, and there was an amp and mic and cables set up in it, too, but nobody there. He let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding and started plugging in, going over the familiar checklist. Check power to the amp, connect cable to the pedals, adapter plugged in for the pedals, pedals’ input cable connected to the guitar, turn on amp, check levels, tune, try three chords, tune again. Find mic, adjust mic stand down, check vocal levels.

“Oh, good, you found it.” Gerard walked in with some taller dude. “Brian, this is Frank, Frank, this is Brian, our manager.” 

Brian put out a hand and Frank grabbed Pansy’s fingerboard to steady it, attempting a clumsy handshake with the pick still between his fingers. Brian laughed easily and sat down, Gerard following. “So Gerard filled you in on how this is going to work? You play us a few songs, if we think you’re a good fit, you do a kind of rehearsal-slash-audition with the band, if everybody thinks you’re a good fit, you fill out a bunch of paperwork and get through six concert events with us. Sound right?”

Frank nodded. 

“Great.” Gerard put a spiral-bound book in his lap and opened it, taking out a pen. “I’m not, uh, taking notes or anything, I’m just drawing.” He uncapped the pen, gesturing. “Helps me think. So, whenever you’re ready.”

Frank took a breath and played a slow chord, nodding as he tapped his distortion pedal on. He thought of the five song titles he’d scribbled down and suddenly couldn’t play any of them. They were either wrong, or he couldn’t remember how they started. But when in doubt, play something you can’t fuck up. He changed chords and picked a steady punk rhythm in four bars before stepping up to the mic and softly growling, “Bonfires burning bright, pumpkin faces in the night, I remember Halloween…” He let his voice open up, felt the song warm him from the pit of his stomach to the fretboard beneath his fingers. He remembered when he’d first heard it, when he’d worn out the tape replaying it, when he’d learned it by heart, when he’d decided to add to the guitar part so it sounded better as a solo piece, got a little longer than a minute and a half. By the time he got to “candy apples and razor blades,” he was screaming, eyes closed, lips locked open millimeters from the mic, sweat beginning to roll down his neck, and he was on and ready.

He finished, opened his eyes, and caught his breath. Brian and Gerard lifted their hands and provided him a light sprinkle of applause. “Misfits, great!” Brian said, nodding. “What else you got?”

They hadn’t thrown him out after thirty seconds; that meant his chances were pretty good. “I figured, one we all know, one I wrote, one you wrote.” He inclined his head at Gerard, who spared a preoccupied glance up from his sketchbook before going back to scribbling.

Frank switched effects and began to strum a pleasing little pattern of thirds, the opening to “Yesterday.” This one was a little harder without the keyboards he was used to hearing in his left ear, but he could still do it in his sleep. Gigging a song twice a week for a year will do that to you. 

Another simple, repetitive song, but with more intricate guitar work, and after the first couple of lines he remembered he had a stage presence to maintain, lifted his head and looked at Gerard when he sang “I wanna run with you.” He pulled Brian in on the chorus, and by the second time through it they were bobbing their heads and singing along with the tagline. They paid attention to the solo, which he might have hammed up a little for their benefit, and plowed through the final repeat, taking it back home to the initial strum pattern and wishing he had his drummer. They clapped again, a smile or two this time.

Now the pressure was on. Frank had to bring them home. There was one song he’d put on his list that seemed right. He’d had to change it around a little to make a coherent solo version that played to his strengths, but he’d spent a lot of time in the last month working this one up, just as therapy, just trying to feel better about everything. He kept his eyes shut through the intro, not daring to look, just keeping his rhythm and his place in the song. And then it was time, and he opened his mouth. “Well, if you wanted honesty, that’s all you had to say,” he began, and eyes still locked shut, he made his way through the first verse and began the first chorus. Third line of it, and he heard a faint harmony. 

Frank opened his eyes singing, “you wear me out,” and Gerard was singing along, nodding, sketchbook abandoned but the pen still clutched in his hand. 

Frank started the second verse, and sure enough, Gerard chimed in with the counterpoint, growing louder, the second “I’m not okay” almost a challenge, and Frank rose to it.

“For the last time, take a good hard look!” he spat, and slammed into the second chorus and the guitar solo, into the bridge, and then Gerard was standing next to him, sharing the mic, screaming the counterpoint, standing back for the quiet part, and singing and screaming all the way through the end. 

Brian rolled his eyes and grinned at them both, even chiming in for the “trust me” before the last chorus.

When they’d finished, he and Gerard stood there panting, sweaty, and smiling at each other like complete fucking doofuses.

Brian stood. “I’m gonna take that as a ‘yes’ from Gerard. And I think you ought to rehearse with the band, too, Frank. I think you’ll fit and I think you can probably pick up whatever you need to get through six gigs in the next couple of days, but we’ll see how it feels to the guys when you’re all playing together. Willow ABC, four o’clock, okay, guys?” He clapped them each on the shoulder and then he was gone.

Frank took off his guitar and propped it against a chair, looking at Gerard. “So. Did I suck?”

“Not even a little.” Gerard grinned, running his fingers through his hair. “I didn’t think you would.”

“Well, it’s a lot to take on faith.” Frank shrugged easily, opening his guitar case and turning off the amp.

“I checked into your band some.” Gerard said in a way that hopefully didn’t imply the way he had a youtube playlist he put on when he couldn’t sleep. “I’m sorry you’re breaking up, by the way. I didn’t know…” there were so many possible ends to that sentence. Gerard didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what he’d do when that happened to MCR. He didn’t know if he’d somehow contributed to the instability of Frank’s group. He didn’t know how inappropriate it would be to say he was glad that it freed Frank up to come and audition.

“Shit happens.” Frank shook his head, starting to pack up his pedals. “You know what, I’m not going to say this for sure until we’re done with rehearsal, but… maybe it was what needed to happen.”

“Rehearsal is going to be good. Ray might act sort of fucking weird until he realizes that you’re not going to stomp all over his solos, no, not even whatever one he’s just tweaked. Bob is going to pretend to hate you, but I think the two of you will get along really well. Mikey… will threaten to kill you on my behalf, then ask you to stay in the band. Probably.”

“Oh-kay. I’ll, uh, take your word for it.” Frank chewed on his lip ring, still getting used to this decisive band-leader guy who called himself Gerard and who kept his clothes on. He tried to emulate the same behavior. “So, rehearsal’s in an hour, right? Should I move this over to Willow, or what?”

“Nah, we’ll get it. You can put your guitar there or take it up to the room with you, whatever you want. I’m gonna get lunch, check in with folks, and I’ll see you there? Rehearsal will probably take at least three hours, and then we could all get dinner but I’d really rather get you naked and sweaty and moaning and swearing. Whatever happens in rehearsal. Whatever the guys think about you playing with us.” Gerard waved his arms and bit his lip, and the transformation from professional frontman to anxious self-deprecating dork was incredibly fucking cute. “If you’re into that, I mean.”

“Yes! Yes, I am incredibly fucking into that. Whatever happens in rehearsal.” Frank swallowed and picked up his guitar case.

Gerard hip-checked the door and hightailed it down the stairs, reaching for his phone to text Lindsey. _sure you’re ok with this??_ He pocketed the phone again, checking it when he sat down to lunch. Two new messages. 

_I said you could bring him home._

_I meant it. <3 _

+++++++++++++++++++++++

Rehearsal was about the way Gerard said it would be.

Most of the songs he knew pretty well by now, but he hadn’t dissected all of them to see which guitar part was covered by Ray and which was covered by a rhythm guitarist. There were a couple of licks that he’d been pretty sure he was supposed to play, but Ray took, and so he backed off and gave them the support he figured was right. Towards the end, though, Ray hesitated a couple of times before filling in for him, and once Frank caught his eye and gave a questioning glance, got a nod in return, and was able to come up with the right riffs in the right places. He got another nod. 

After the first couple of songs, they just nodded to each other in faux-amicable awkwardness, before giving him a sketchy idea of the structure of the next song and launching into it. After a few, though, they joked around and talked about the weather. Frank nattered on about Jersey while they tuned, and just generally held on and tried not to fuck up too much. The social part he had mostly covered, although Bob barely gave him any notice. Mikey at least gave him a couple of nods, talked a little. Ray and Gerard did most of the talking, and Brian did some listening on the sidelines. They finished with “Cancer,” and Frank took a couple of risks, let himself sink into the music and their cohesion, let the band know what he sounded like when he was just in the moment with a song and running roughshod.

He pulled Pansy over his head and set it down on the stand, looking around. “So, hey, that was awesome. Thank you for letting me run through a rehearsal with you.”

“You sound great, man. Anything else you wanna run through, anything you wanna do again?” Ray piped up, his voice a little rough and squeaky around the edges. Frank liked the sound of it, thought maybe he could get used to the voices around him. In conversation, in song, arguing in a van on the way to a gig, whatever.

He tamped his hope down. “Nah, I’m good. I figure I should bow out and let you guys talk band stuff and get dinner and then, uh, check in with me? Tomorrow or something?” Frank squinted. MCR was on a quicker schedule for auditioning than he was used to, what with the short notice and the pending gigs.

Mikey nodded. “We’ll let you know.”

“Alright, cool, thanks again.” Frank started unplugging and coiling and packing up and putting things in cases, did the handshaking thing with a couple of the guys, and picked up his guitar case. Gerard glanced at him and grabbed his pedalboard, walking him out of the room.

They were silent all the way to the elevator. The ‘ding’ of the doors opening was shockingly loud, and then there was some bellhop there with a cart going up to the roof or something, so they kept mum to the twenty-first floor and all the way down the hall. Frank’s heart was pounding so loudly as he unlocked the door he thought maybe Gerard could hear it.

Gerard stepped into the room behind Frank and set down his gear, suddenly afraid. He knew the band business stuff. He knew what he wanted to do with Frank. But he wasn’t sure what Frank wanted now that Gerard wasn’t a client. Maybe he actually hated getting blowjobs in his private life, or something. Okay, no, that was kind of hard to believe. But that was the point; Gerard didn’t _know_.

“Well.” Frank interrupted Gerard’s private freakout. “Did…. did I suck? I sucked, didn’t I, that’s why you’re not talking, fuck.”

“What?! What, no. No. Shit, you’re better than our last two guitarists and you had the material and general feel for our songs more quickly than… possibly anyone so far.” Gerard’s words started to tumble out. “I really liked what you did with Cancer. You had no issues with so many timing things that usually come up. You don’t rush intros, you didn’t make Ray cranky about solos, you left space for Mikey to jam out on the songs with interesting basslines, and you didn’t break the skin on Bob’s snare, which seems like a low bar, but is one sure-fire way to fail a fucking audition and possibly get your nose broken, and that totally happened once, almost twice. Everybody in the band knows that as far as I’m concerned, you’re in. For as long as you want to be. I know that, they know that, I thought you knew that. That’s not what I was thinking about on the way up here at all.”

“Oh! I…. oh. I mean, holy shit, thanks. Um. So what were you thinking about?” Frank bit his lip ring nervously.

“I was afraid you maybe didn’t like… stuff… when you’re not… working.” Gerard’s hands moved in vague circles. “Maybe working _made_ you not like stuff. Intimacy. Maybe the stuff we did before was wrong for what you actually like? I don’t know.”

“What? Oh, okay. Um. When I’m not working, I… don’t get waxed and I wear old sweaters over band t-shirts. I play Candy Crush. I scratch my balls in public more. I’m not secretly an alien or something, y’know?” Frank sat down on the bed, hands folded between his lap. 

Gerard grabbed the desk chair and sat down, too. “Well, yeah, but you’re here now and we’re not--” He shook his head, trying again. “I want to know how you _want_ to be treated.”

“Well, I want you to get the fuck over here, for a start.”

“Right.” Gerard stood up and shuffled over to the bed obediently, sitting down next to Frank but not touching him. 

“And don’t treat me like a leper, that’d be good, I kind of get enough of that from people when they hear what I do for a living.” Frank grinned.

“Oh god no, I didn’t…” Gerard looked horrified beyond measure.

Frank pushed Gerard down on the bed and sprawled half on top of him, ignoring the muffled squawk of alarm. “Okay, and fucking breathe, and don’t worry so much about offending me. You have a stage persona, right? That persona isn’t all you, but it’s based on you, a more confident you who’s switched on and amped up and, like, fuckin’, bolstered and informed and shit by all the musical knowledge and experience you have. The real you doesn’t always want the spotlight or to worry about saying the right thing into the microphone. Sometimes you’d rather be fucking jerking off and eating cheesy poofs, right?”

Gerard nodded, biting his lip.

“Right, so.” Frank shifted, letting Gerard get slightly more comfortable. “Um. When I work, it’s like that. Maybe more like the stage character of a heavy metal band, or fucking Kiss or something, something with a little more fiction to it, because it’s my job to be somebody’s fantasy. You were only like the fifth client who ever asked me to act like boyfriend material.” Gerard opened his mouth. “Okay, whose wife asked me to be boyfriend material.” Gerard closed his mouth, making a little acknowledgement with his eyebrows. “Most of those other clients wanted short dates, or weren’t my type at all. And so with you, I kinda made a bullshit mistake and didn’t handle you as professionally as I should have.”

“I didn’t think it was---”

“Shut up.” Frank ran his fingers roughly through his hair and sighed. He shook his head, meeting Gerard’s eyes. “I’m trying to tell you that you kinda know me already, and that my bullshit mistake changed things and I’m happy I made it, and you should fucking let me take your clothes off.”

Gerard swallowed. “Please.”

Frank pulled up on the hem of Gerard’s t-shirt. “So. You want me to do this how I want, huh, not how I think it should be done…” He threw the shirt over his shoulder. “Not how I think you want it, not how I think the agency would advise, not how it looks in porn, how I want?”

“That’s it, yeah.” Gerard grinned cheekily as Frank got to work on his jeans next. He lifted his hips, and then he wasn’t wearing a stitch. “You sure you don’t have a thing for taking away my clothes?”

“I might,” Frank allowed. “Now you… take these off me, okay?” He leaned over, placing Gerard’s hand on the lapel of his plaid shirt by the first button.

Gerard nodded eagerly and started unbuttoning, his eyes taking in every bit of skin and ink as soon as it was revealed. The undershirt, pulled off. Gerard tugged down Frank’s jeans to his ankles and off, laughing when Frank rolled his hips suggestively. The laugh dwindled and turned into a half-gasp-half-moan when he saw that Frank was hard.

“Will you… I want you to take these off with your teeth.” Frank tweaked the elastic on his boxer briefs, propping himself up a little on a pillow and an elbow. “And then…” he let out a quick intake of breath when he saw how Gerard had wiggled up between Frank’s knees to rub his cheek over the cloth, nuzzle lower, rub his face against Frank’s dick like it was the best thing in the world, breathe him in, and finally tilt up his head and opened his eyes.

It was fucking electric. And then Gerard opened his mouth, saliva shiny on his lips and tongue, dropped his gaze and his head, and Frank felt the scrape of Gerard’s teeth on his belly, the coolness of the air against his skin as Gerard began to pull down his briefs. Frank lifted up a little, Gerard shook his head back and forth with the waistband in his teeth, looking for all the world like a puppy with a favorite toy, and didn’t let go until the underwear was around Frank’s knees. “That’s good, that’s enough, I want you… I want. Fuck, I want you to suck my dick, but I need you, like, get your ass up here enough for me to get my hands on you, because I want you to come with my dick in your mouth again, been fucking thinking about it for weeks. And then, if you’ll let me, I want to fuck you.”

Gerard looked up, suppressing a shiver at the words. At everything. Frank was dark eyes, dark hair, those lips, that ink on pale skin, dusting of hair leading down to a cock that made Gerard’s mouth water, every inch of the guy was gorgeous. And he was just supposed to have been one expensive night of stress relief, and Gerard should have let it go, but somehow… somehow Frank was here, in front of him. Had feelings for him. Had dropped everything and brought a guitar because Gerard called and asked him for help. Gerard swallowed. “Can I kiss you first?”

“Get the hell up here, rockstar.” Frank kicked off his underwear and made grabby hands, pulled Gerard close, twined fingers in his hair and pushed his tongue into Gerard’s mouth, lost in the soft wet heat of it, the give and take of the kiss, the way their breathing cued up to each other, the feeling of Gerard’s cock hard against his thigh. Gerard would take little breaths, make little whimpers at the touch of Frank’s tongue, the way Frank bit Gerard’s lip. It was driving. Frank. Crazy. He reached down and got a hand on Gerard’s dick, and Gerard broke away from the kiss, panting.

They looked at each other, and Frank was about to ask if he should apologize, when he saw Gerard’s eyes turn hungry, and he leaned down to nuzzle at Frank’s crotch, wiggling so that his ass stayed up by Frank’s chest, balls hanging between his legs. 

“Oh, goddamn. You’re gonna do it, aren’t you. Gonna suck my cock while I jerk you off just so I can watch you come with a dick in your mouth. My dick….jesusCHRIST Gerard, Gerard, fuck…” Frank trailed off into muffled obscenities as Gerard’s mouth closed around the head of Frank’s cock and he began to suck eagerly.

Frank could give as good as he got, though, and busied himself jerking Gerard off, turning so he could get the fingers of his other hand on Gerard’s asshole. It took a gratifyingly short period of time to get Gerard whimpering and half-choking, his hips jerking. “You ready?” Frank’s fingers tightened and pressed deep. “You know after this I’m gonna fuck you.” That did it, and Gerard made a desperate noise, muffled by his mouthful of cock. Frank had to take a deep breath and focus on. Not. Coming. Yet. He focused instead on the twitch of Gerard’s dick, the hard clench of Gerard’s asshole, how his cum painted the covers.

Gerard came back up for air, panting, and Frank kissed the top of his head. He was set for a little bit of cuddling, maybe, but Gerard was getting strung out by lust and impatience. “Lube,” Gerard demanded.

“Sec, pants.” Frank leaned over and fished around on the floor until he came up with trousers he could get into the pockets of and grab a pillow pack of lube and a condom. “Here we go. Put this on me, okay?”

Gerard tore open the package and checked the orientation of the condom before smoothing it onto Frank’s cock with a little squeeze at the end, and Frank set himself the tricky task of opening the lube without getting it everywhere. He brought his wet fingers down to coat his cock, and then looked at Gerard questioningly.

“Uh-uh.” Gerard shook his head. “Your night, you tell _me_ what you want, remember?”

“I want you on your back,” Frank said immediately. 

Gerard started to shift around, and Frank got lube-slick fingers on his cock, bracing a hand on his shoulder. Gerard was soft, but it still felt good, and when Frank’s fingers slipped behind his balls and started to press in again, it was difficult to keep himself from arching up. Frank’s hair hung in his face and he was almost pinning Gerard down, which Gerard found he was desperately enjoying, and Frank was going to be on top of him, fucking him into the goddamn mattress any minute now.

“I want to be able to see you while I’m fucking you,” Frank began to mutter, his voice going sweetly dark, “want to look in your eyes and watch while you take my dick, take it all the way up to the hilt, want to watch you moan and groan and whimper and fuckin’ scream and I’m just going to keep fucking you until I’m done, you understand, until I’m tired of watching you take it, which is probably gonna be never but christ I’m going to try, now up?”

Gerard swallowed, lost in Frank’s stream-of-consciousness dirty talk, and tried to get his eyes to focus on whatever Frank was holding. A pillow. Oh! A pillow! Gerard obligingly lifted his hips and Frank shoved it under him, words still spilling out of his mouth that Gerard only half-caught but still wanted with the full force of his being.

Frank lined up, pressed gently, re-angled, pressed again. “...and I need you to fuckin’ breathe for me, that’s it, breathe out, relax, I want to make you feel good, want you under me and squirming and grabbing and...FUCK.” Frank was in and Gerard was full, so beautifully full. Frank leaned forward with an exhale, locked eyes with Gerard and said, “Gotcha now, rockstar,” and plowed all the way inside and it was so good, too good.

It was good when Frank started moving, good when he took Gerard’s wrists in hand and held him down for a while and fucked him fast, good when he pulled back, one hand on the headboard and one hand on Gerard’s cheek and fucked him slow and deep, looking into his eyes. It was good when Frank’s expression changed, he added some more lube, and got a hand on Gerard’s, pulling his arm down until Gee got the idea and wrapped his fingers around his cock. It was almost a surprise, how close he was already. Gerard just tried to hang the fuck on, because it was as though Frank had been unleashed, and Gerard just wanted to see what would happen.

It seemed like it was only two sweet seconds before his toes were curling and Frank was panting, “You ready? I need you, come on, Gerard, fucking come for me, gonna make me lose it--” 

Gerard’s eyes closed for a moment, the pleasure too sharp to share the brightness, but he opened them back up in time to see Frank throw his head back, a cry ripped from his throat, nothing groomed or polite about it. Frank was need and satisfaction and unguarded lust and Gerard drank it up, his fingers and toes relaxing.

Frank gently pulled out, deftly divesting himself of the condom and dropping it in the trash beside the bed.

“Stay for a second, okay? Just lemme…” Gerard didn’t finish his sentence and didn’t need to, Frank’s lips on his, Frank’s tongue in his mouth. When Frank pulled away, he flopped back on the pillows gracelessly, hands behind his head.

“Jesuschrist.”

“I hope you’re ready to do something like that every night this week,” Gerard murmured contentedly.

“Like you’re so sure they’re going to say yes.” Frank poked him in the ribs. 

“Of course I’m sure.”

Frank sighed and rolled his eyes, and got up to wash off.

“Frank. _Frankie._ Stop.”

Frank froze in his tracks, not entirely realizing what had just happened until he felt Gerard’s fingers on his lower back, reverently tracing the new tattoo: crossed guns just like the ones on the vest he would wear tomorrow night.

“When did you get these.” Frank couldn’t read Gerard’s voice at all, and he was afraid to turn around.

Frank swallowed and ducked his head. “When I was sure I wouldn’t have anything else to remember you by.”

There was a sharp pain in his scalp as Gerard pulled Frank’s hair, twisting until they were face to face. Gerard kissed him, all fierceness and teeth, then leaned in, pressing their foreheads together. “Look. I don’t know how this is going to go, I don’t know what your life is gonna be like, I don’t know exactly what you want. But if I have any say about it, you’re not going to have to remember me, okay? Because I won’t be gone.”

+++++++++++++++++++++++

The following morning, Frank paced inside his room, the short path between window and door doing nothing to calm his nerves. Finally, someone knocked shave-and-a-haircut and he opened the door two seconds later, out of breath and probably looking like a total goddamn freak.

It was Ray, looking impossibly calm. “Hey!” It was Ray. It wasn’t Gerard. 

Oh my god it wasn’t Gerard. Nobody had to break the bad news to him. That meant...“Hi?”

“Gee said I could be the one to tell you. You’re, um, you’re in?” Ray said, nodding and tucking his hair behind his ear.

“I’m what.” Frank’s heart skipped a beat.

“You’re in, man!” Ray tossed his head, completely missing how Frank was busy freaking out internally. “Let’s see, today’s Wednesday, we’ll rehearse again a couple times, and a couple of times just you and me and probably a drum map for a few things so you can pick up on the rhythms, and then be ready for Friday’s gig.”

Frank was euphoric for approximately two seconds before panic set in. “I’m not. I can’t.” Frank gestured helplessly.

“You did it in rehearsal and you have years of performing experience. You can do it on stage. Just…” Ray’s voice pitched a little bit low, and Frank could tell he was thinking of other rhythm guitarists they’d had. “Be willing to fuckin’ work with us instead of doing drugs or assuming you’re too good for us, and you’ll basically be set.”

Frank nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

The rehearsals over the next two days went well. Frank fell into the rhythm of slowly picking things up, tried not to curse himself for the riffs he stumbled over and stumbled over before they finally started to feel right under his fingers. He spent his nights with Gerard and every free waking moment with headphones on, immersing himself in the setlist. Sometimes he’d skip to tracks he liked that weren’t from the setlist, letting himself hope that he’d get to try them with the band after these gigs were up.

In no time it was Friday, and after they’d done sound check and figured out dinner plans he found himself on his phone texting Jamia. He missed her, and she was busily giving him shit about how he’d think he was too good for her now. 

_if anything I feel like more of a schlub compared to these guys_ , he sent back, following it up with _you’ve always been too good for me anyway ;)_

She sent back a wink and a “ _never_!” when Frank heard footsteps echoing. He looked up to see Mikey walking down the hall towards the green room. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

“Got a minute?”

Frank straightened up, pocketing his phone. “Yeah, what’s up?”

“From what I can tell, you, uh, started liking Gee and then you stopped talking to him. That right?” Mikey’s eyes were clear and steady.

Frank’s heart sank. “Yeah, I fucked up.”

Mikey nodded. “That was your one, okay. You get one.”

“Yeah, yeah, absolutely.” Frank nodded until his head threatened to fall off his neck. _This is the part where he threatens to kill me,_ Frank thought.

Mikey relaxed. “Cool. I like your playing, man, and I hope you can stick around.”

Frank resolutely tried not to barf in panic as Mikey walked away. He succeeded. Barely.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Frank had played a lot of concerts in his life, and he knew MCR was popular. But he wasn’t ready for the force of the attention of an audience that big, that focused, that vocal. They screamed along to enough of the songs that Frank hardly worried about his guitar parts.

Okay, that was a lie. Frank worried through every single phrase, each tricky passage, each driving riff, each look he shared with Ray and Bob and Mikey and Gerard. He’d been hyper-focused since soundcheck, although the talk with Mikey had amped up his nerves a little further.

But after all was said and done, it was a blur of adrenaline and sore fingers from gripping his fretboard too hard. It was a blur of lights and waving hands and screaming fans and sweat. Once he’d done it, it was a blur of… of joy.

It hit him on the tour bus back to the hotel that he only got to do this five more times, and it already didn’t seem like enough. He worried he wasn’t good enough to stay through the whole tour, let alone remain in the band for good, or for recording. Rhythm guitarists never seemed to stay with MCR, and there was no reason to believe he was special.

He looked over at Gerard, who was busily texting his wife, all thumbs on the phone screen. He was sweaty and his hair hung over his eyes in greasy strands. He was filthy. He was preoccupied. 

He was beautiful. He was Frank’s. Maybe that was all that mattered.


End file.
